Ren looked up.
A quaint, clean-looking little restaurant stood at the center of the street. It didn't look too large—which made him breathe a little easier.
In Gotham, the bigger something looks, the more it stinks. Small targets attract less trouble. That was his working theory, anyway.
Drake glanced at him. "Just a heads-up—Donald's not someone you want to piss off. The less you say, the better."
"Is he powerful?"
"He may not be. But the people behind him definitely are."
They spoke quietly as they approached, and Ren couldn't help but recall the little hole-in-the-wall shops he used to pass after school back in japan. The kind that never had customers, barely restocked shelves once a month, where the clerks were glued to their phones and didn't bother turning on the lights. And yet, somehow, those shops just… stayed open. One year, two years, until he graduated—they were still there.
If this restaurant worked the same way, that would've been nice.
But the moment he stepped inside, that illusion shattered.
They passed through the front entrance and were immediately guided down a short hallway by a stunning blonde receptionist who had clearly been told to expect them. She smiled politely, gave them a slight nod, and gestured them onward into the main space of the restaurant.
Ren didn't know much about restaurant design, but even the hallway wallpaper looked expensive. That alone set off warning bells.
And then they entered the main dining hall.
Wine racks gleamed in rows along the walls. Soft, ambient lighting pooled like honey across every surface. Tasteful patterns graced the walls, lush green plants added a dash of vitality, and every guest was dressed in tailored suits and dresses, eating in calm, elegant silence.
"Fancy. Too damn fancy," Ren muttered under his breath. "This is what you call a small restaurant? What's it doing here instead of in the Diamond District?"
Drake shrugged. "Otisburg has rich people too, you know. This place caters to… specific kinds of clientele. Don't think about it too hard. Just ask yourself—do you want to make money, or not?"
"…"
The receptionist turned back to them with a professional smile. "Mr. Donald is expecting you. Please head upstairs to his office."
Well, whether Ren wanted to or not, they were past the point of no return. He sighed and followed Drake toward the stairs, operating on the universal rule of "well, we're already here."
At the top of the stairs, two rows of men in black suits stood along the hallway, silent and still. Their message was clear: You're welcome here for now. But that can change.
Ren's scalp tingled. He realized, belatedly, that he had massively underestimated this whole situation.
This wasn't some low-profile side quest. This was the kind of background where main plots die and named villains respawn.
If Donald hadn't been so close, and if his metaphorical gun hadn't been pointed right at Ren's face, he might've sprinted out the door.
He took a few deep breaths to collect himself, then stepped into the office behind Drake.
Inside, a broad-shouldered man in a sharp tailored suit stood up from his chair. He looked calm, solid. Even across the room, when he saw Drake, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Drake. It's been a few months. You're looking better."
Truthfully, Drake had been through hell recently—months of anxiety and soul-crushing stress. But Donald wasn't wrong. For the first time in forever, the weight was off his shoulders. The dark circles under his eyes and hollow cheeks were still there, but the light was back in his eyes.
"I've been lucky," Drake admitted. "My wife pulled through. Another week or two, and we're leaving Gotham—heading home."
Ren could've sworn he saw a flicker of envy pass through Donald's eyes. Not quite visible, but there.
"To live out your days with the woman you love... That's a rare kind of happiness—even in Metropolis," Donald said softly. "Congratulations, Drake."
"What's there to envy? I'm just some broke nobody. Guys like you—you can go anywhere, do anything. Your kind of joy is something I can't even imagine."
Donald chuckled quietly, eyes lowered. "My family's been in Gotham for generations. I'm a Gotham man. I'm not going anywhere."
The air grew just a little heavier. To break the moment, Drake clapped Ren on the back and pushed him forward.
"This is the friend I told you about. New in Gotham. Doesn't know the ropes yet. The stuff he used to do back home doesn't really translate here. He came to me for help."
Donald's eyes sharpened immediately. The warmth vanished. He looked Ren up and down like a man inspecting a piece of meat.
"What's your education?"
"College degree. From japan."
"?"
Even Drake blinked at him. He'd always assumed Ren was just a high school grad at best.
Ren flushed a little under their gaze.
"Don't look at me like that. The school was smart. I wasn't. Their achievements have nothing to do with me."
Fair enough.
"What can you do?"
"I used to write little web novels. Romance stuff. Paid the bills… barely. But that doesn't exactly help in Gotham."
"?"
Drake glanced over, stunned. You were writing smutty web novels? He'd thought Ren meant actual writing, like articles or books—not that.
What other talents are you hiding, man?
"…Huh. Honest. I like that."
"?"
This time both Ren and Drake looked at Donald like he had lost his mind. Are you seriously impressed? The guy wrote online erotica, not government briefings.
"Can you use a gun or a knife?"
"Nope. But I've got one."
Ren reflexively reached for the pistol on his hip… then froze. Maybe reaching for a weapon in front of a man like Donald wasn't the best move. He slowly lowered his hand.
"Smart."
Donald nodded. "How'd you get here today?"
"Took the bus."
"Got guts. And lucky, too. But if you want to last in Gotham, you'll need more than luck—you'll need to use that gun."
The more Donald spoke, the more Ren wanted to laugh. He'd come in expecting this to be a suicide mission. But Donald's words were calm, measured—if icy cold. A string of casual praise from a man who looked like he could order a hit mid-lunch.
In Gotham, none of the high-functioning people seem remotely normal.